


go away, my love

by soapyconnor



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Injured!Jack, Love Confession, M/M, death mention, fluff (kind of), idk what else to tga kfjgjkfghh, no one rlly dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 01:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13536636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapyconnor/pseuds/soapyconnor
Summary: jack nearly dies. alastair decides to stop being a baby and confess.





	go away, my love

**Author's Note:**

> hi y'all . . . ok so this seems like a rlly weird ship but @kingscunt/agentpercivals and i rp together w/ percival and whiskey as our muses and well . . . ok this started out as a crackship and now i rlly ship it. i wanna die fdkjhjfkh. my rp blog is @electriclassos and his is @pperceval is ya wanna read some of our rps.
> 
> my main blog on tumblr is @heggsys
> 
> this is unbeta'd

            Alastair didn’t usually get calls from Ginger. Normally, the few calls he got were either from Jack, or one of his coworkers. While Kingsman and Statesman _were_ partners in a way, the two tried to keep themselves as far apart as possible. There was the occasional mission where they would send a couple of Statesman and Kingsman together—generally, it was Jack and Alastair who they paired up—but it was very rare.

            So, Ginger calling him raised suspicion, and he wasn’t so sure if it was a good sign. Nevertheless, he answered.

            “Hello, Ginger,” he said, “What do I owe the call?”

            “Percival. Whiskey got injured . . . It’s not looking good for him,” she responded, without any hesitation. His heart immediately plummeted into his gut. “We’re sending a Statesman plane to come and get you. It shouldn’t take that much longer for it to be there.”

            “What happened?” he asked, rising from his seat and walking out into the hallway. He was beginning his ascent upstairs. He wanted to get on that fucking plane as soon as it arrived. “How bad? I know you said it’s _bad_ , but fuck, just _how bad_?”

            Ginger was quiet for a moment. He didn’t like how quiet she was. “Look. You need to fucking tell me,” he said with a snap. “What _happened_?”

            The continued silence made it sound like she was going to protest, that she wasn’t going to tell him. Then he heard her sigh, and he knew he had been just annoying enough to get it out of her. “As you know, we’ve been searching for a new candidate for Bourbon. Whiskey and Vodka’s recruits are the two finalists, and so they went out on a mission. Well . . . Whiskey’s recruit accidentally shot him in the fucking head. Don’t ask me how that happened, because we’re still trying to get the story out of all of them, and trying to recover the feed from their glasses. While the alpha gel was applied immediately, the recruit . . . the recruit shot him point blank. Nearly blew half of his head off. We were able to rebuild his brain, thankfully, but he’s not . . . he’s not showing any signs of regaining consciousness.”

            As Alastair began to walk outside, the mansion shook. The Statesman plane must have landed. He took a deep breath. “God . . . Okay. The Statesman plane just landed, so I’ll be leaving now. Please keep me informed.”

            “I will. See you soon, Percival,” she said, and then hung up.

            Alastair took a deep breath, before he headed outside. When the mansion had been rebuilt, a runway had been added. It was Statesman’s idea, and at first, no one liked it. Now, Alastair had never been so grateful to have it.

            He was in a daze as he got into Statesman’s plane. The pilot didn’t even make any comment to him, he just turned and headed into the cockpit.

            Alastair collapsed on the couch, and reached over to the side table. He took a deep breath as he picked up the bottle of scotch. He was grateful that Statesman kept a large supply of alcohol on the plane, he was going to need it.

 

 

            When he arrived in Kentucky, he was nearly wasted. He had passed out on the plane, and was only woken up by the pilot shaking him awake. He was confused as to where he was, and he glanced around the Statesman plane before remembering what had happened. It sobered him up quietly, and he practically leaped off of the couch before he ran off of the plane and into Statesman’s HQ.

            He quickly made his way to med bay, his heart racing. He had no missed messages from Ginger, and he didn’t know what that meant. Did it mean he was fine? Did something happen, and she was just too scared to tell him? The thought of it all fucking _terrified_ him, and he felt sick to his stomach.

            He finally got to the room that he knew was Whiskey’s—the man practically _lived_ in that room—and he walked in, his eyes immediately landing on Jack’s body laying limply on the bed. There was a nurse in there with him, and her gaze immediately jerked to him. Once she realized who he was, she quickly left.

            He stared at Jack, unmoving. His mouth had grown dry, and his breathing had picked up a bit.

            On the hospital bed, Jack laid there, his chest barely moving. The entire left side of his head was wrapped up in bandages. Even his jaw and cheek were wrapped. He looked . . . dead.

            Alastair walked forward slowly, and collapsed into the chair next to Jack’s bed, his eyes never leaving his body. With each breath Jack took, it sounded painful, and like a wheeze. Alastair slowly took Jack’s hand, and flinched when he felt how cold it was. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, as he got up and went to the cabinet. He opened it, and pulled one of the heavy blankets out of it. He then quickly returned to Jack, and threw it over him, hoping it would warm him up a bit.

            He then sat down again, and retook Jack’s hands. He listened to his breathing, feeling sick as he heard Jack taking large, gulping breaths, then a couple shallow ones. Alastair shook his head. “Jack, you fucking idiot . . .” he muttered.

            He sat there, quietly holding Jack’s hands and watching him, prepared to call Ginger or one of the nurses in at any moment if things started to take a turn for the worse.

            As he sat there, he couldn’t help but feel . . . Fuck. He didn’t even really know what he was feeling. Guilt? Regret? One of those was probably right.

            He had known Jack for years. They were the first Statesman and Kingsman agents to meet, which happened completely on accident. They were both young, and stupid, and had gotten into a pissing match with each other, before they were promptly captured by the people they were supposed to be taking down. After they had managed to escape—which wasn’t easy, mind you—they had to expose each other’s agency, because Whiskey’s glasses had been broken and he would have no way of contacting Statesman otherwise.

            While Champ and Arthur were fucking pissed at first—and rightfully so—but once Ginger and Merlin realized that they could benefit from each other, and managed to convince their bosses of it, they got over it.

Kingsman and Statesman were separate, would always _be_ separate, but they helped each other occasionally. Most of the time, Jack and Alastair were sent on those missions together, because they worked well together. Not as well as James and himself, of course, but they did pretty well.

. . . Well . . . when they weren’t arguing that is.

            Jack had surprised him. Still surprised him to this day. Most people fucking pissed Al off, and he couldn’t stand them. When they had first met, Alastair had thought to himself that he couldn’t _wait_ until that fucker was gone, so Jack had the same effect on him at first. But then over the week that they were forced to be together, the fucker had _grown_ on him. It irritated the shit out of him, and he had complained to James about it later that night, but all he got in return was James’ stupid fucking grin.

            Despite how much Jack irritated him some days, he was grateful that he had met him. He was a good man, and got Alastair. He knew when to push him, and he knew when he needed to stop.

            Alastair gave a soft smile as his gaze jerked down to their interlocked hands. At first, the two hadn’t talked much. There were a couple of messages here and there, and whenever Jack was in town they would go get a drink. They really started to become close after James died.

            Alastair had been a fucking _mess_ when he found out what had happened to his husband. He had been in disbelief, and couldn’t come to terms with it. He didn’t know how Jack found out, or why he showed up, but shortly after Alastair had found out, Jack had showed up at his house. He sat there, and talked to him, and even comforted him. Jack stayed with him until he said he was ready to move on. By that time, hm . . . he had been living with him for four months? Yeah. That sounded about right.

            Jack had given up his personal life for four months to take care of Alastair. That meant more to him than anything else.

            After that, they had remained close. They often would visit one another, and would call each other frequently when they were apart. Over that time, Alastair had grown feelings for Jack, and while he hadn’t noticed it at first, it soon became painfully obvious that it was more than just friendly.

It had been a good five years since James had died. Alastair still missed him terribly to this day, he would _always_ miss him, but he knew James wouldn’t want him to be alone. That James knew he would love him, _always_ love him, and that moving on wouldn’t change anything.

            Alastair glanced up at Jack’s face, and he took a deep breath. He needed to make his move, before Jack did something stupid and ended up dead. He was tired of waiting, and pussyfooting around the subject. Who knows? Admitting this may be the last thing they’ll ever get to say to one another.

            He sat there for a long time, wondering what he was going to say. Time passed fast for him, which was odd, but I guess when you’re stressing over the possibility of your friend dying and revealing to them you were in love with them caused that to happen.

            He glanced at the clock. It had been a good six hours since he had arrived at Statesman, and Jack had remained pretty much the same. Alastair was fucking exhausted, and he was about ready to fall asleep, when Jack’s body violently convulsed, before his one uncovered eye popped open, and he let out a loud, gravely gasp.

            Alastair jerked back his eyes going wide, as Jack began to let out loud, gasping breaths, and his hands went beneath him as he tried to push himself up right. Then, Alastair went into action, rising to his feet, and looming over Jack, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Calm down,” he said, softly, pushing Jack back against the hospital bed, “You’re fine. Calm down. You need to stop, before you hurt yourself.”

            Jack’s chest heaved. His hands went to Alastair’s biceps, gripping tightly, and his one open eye staring back into his. As Alastair held him down, forced him to stay there instead of violently lashing out, he slowly began to calm down.

            He let out a sigh, and he slowly sat down in the chair, Jack watching him carefully. Alastair reached over, and pushed the button on the side of the bed, letting Ginger know Jack was awake. Jack was holding Alastair’s hand tightly, and showing no sign of letting go. “Where am I?” Jack asked, voice quivering. “What happened? I don’t . . . remember.”

            “You’re back at Statesman’s HQ. Your recruit shot you in the head,” Alastair said, covering Jack’s hand with his. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

            “Ah . . . well . . .” he said, eyebrows furrowing. His hand went up, and touched the gauze on the side of his head. “Last thing I remember is leaving Statesman to spend the twenty-four hours with him. Other than that, I don’t remember jack shit.” He put his head back against the pillow, his eyes closing slowly.

            “What was that . . . two days ago? So, you’ve just lost a day. I guess that’s not as bad as it could have been,” Alastair said with a small chuckle.

Jack gave a tired smile, and said, “You didn’t have to come tonight . . . I would have been fine.”

            Alastair’s eyebrows arched up towards his hairline. “Yeah . . . sure you would have, mate. They called me here because they didn’t know if you were going to make it,” he whispered, clutching Jack’s hand tightly.

            Jack rolled his eye. “Uh huh . . .”

            They both glanced to the door as Ginger walked in. She looked extremely relieved to see Jack sitting upright in the bed, and looking somewhat coherent. “Hey, Jack. How are you feeling?”

            “Like dog shit,” he admitted, closing his eyes.

            “Well . . . that’s to be expected. I’ll up your painkillers, okay?” she said, then glanced at Alastair. “Percival, I appreciate you staying with him, but you should go get some rest. You look terrible.”

            He opened his mouth to protest, when he felt Jack tug on his hand. He looked towards Jack. “You should,” Jack said softly. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure if something happens, Ginger will call you . . . I’m going to go back to sleep, anyways. I’m exhausted.”

            Alastair shook his head, and went to say something. Again, Jack cut him off, “You can go sleep in my quarters. Then, you won’t have to worry about going anywhere and getting lost.” He smiled softly. He then gently pulled Alastair’s hands to his lips, and kissed it, causing his heart to seize. “I’ll be fine.”  
            He couldn’t really find anything, or could argue with that. He sighed, and nodded. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and he patted Jack’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything,” he murmured, before he quietly left the room. He glanced over at Jack one more time before he left.

            He would just have to wait until tomorrow.

 

 

            Why could nothing ever go as planned?

            Getting into an argument with Jack wasn’t really what he wanted to happen, but it fucking happened anyways! Of course, it did, because that’s what they did best. Argue. God _damn_ it . . .

            All he did was mention the possibility of Jack retiring. It was the best for the man, after all. He had been shot in the head about four times in his life time, and each time he got closer and closer to death. It was time to retire, or switch with Ginger, or Champ—because the older Statesman agent was looking to retire—or get a job _somewhere_ in Statesman where he didn’t need to go out on the field.

            Of course, Jack _hated_ that idea.

            “I don’t know why you’re getting on my ass about it!” Jack snapped, then flinching. It hurt him to yell, because of his head not recovering as well as they had originally hoped. He lowered his voice, then said, “If I even suggested to you the thought of retiring, you would skin me alive!”

            “Well, yes, but my head hasn’t nearly been blown off my body four times, has it?” Alastair retorted. He then stopped himself, and took a deep breath. “Jack. This is the second time this year alone that you have gotten shot in the head. You’re lucky you didn’t die. You _should_ be dead. Stop being a fucking idiot, and admit that retirement is in your best interested. Just do it.”

            “It’s _not_ ,” he snapped. “Stop telling me what to fucking do! What do you fucking care?” There was a momentary pause, with both of them staring at each other in slight shock. Jack was well aware of the fact that Alastair cared about him, so for him to be _confused_ as to why he was suggesting retirement was just . . . well. Stupid. “You’re not my fucking husband,” he continued, his fists clenched into the bed sheets. “You’re not my partner. What does it matter to you? Yeah, I bet you’ll be real fucking sad if I die, but it’s not like we’re _together_ where these fucking decisions I make will directly impact your life.”

            Alastair had never felt so angry in his _life_. Here Jack was, trying to tell him how _he_ felt, and trying to tell him how _he’d_ react, while being absolutely fucking clueless. Unable to find the words, he reached forward furiously and cupped Jack’s face, before he pulled their faces together.

            He tried not to be rough. He knew Jack was still in a great deal of pain, but he was so fucking _frustrated_ that he couldn’t help but force it all into the kiss. His frustration, his pain, and his anger were all apart of it, but then there was his love, his admiration, and his crushing sadness at the thought of losing Jack was there, too.

            He felt the man tense beneath his hands. _Fuck_ , he thought, _he’s not into it._ He pulled away, and apology on his tongue, when he heard Jack let out a soft moan, before he was tugged back against him.

Their lips met again. It was a lot softer than before, and as Jack’s tongue traveled into his mouth, Jack made sure he knew how he was feeling. There was frustration, anger, hurt, but then was love there too. Appreciation, understanding, _acceptance_.

One of his hands traveled upwards, gently carding his fingers through Jack’s exposed hair. Jack’s hands found themselves cupping Percival’s face, before one traveled down to caress the back of his neck.

For the most part, it was good. Then Jack’s fuckin’ mustache just had to tickle the skin beneath his nose and ruin it.

He pulled away, but only enough that they were both able to breath. Percival hesitantly met Whiskey’s eye. The corner of Whiskey’s eye was crinkled, and Percival knew if he glanced down to his lips, there’d be a stupid fucking grin on his face.

“If I knew you would kiss me because I’m an idiot, I would have acted like an idiot a lot sooner,” Whiskey whispered, chuckling softly to himself.

Percival shook his head at him. “Sure, you would have. Just so you know, I wouldn’t have kissed you any sooner.”

“Oh? Then what brought this one on?” Jack asked, the corner of his mouth twitching nervously. “Just to shut me up?”

“Sort of,” Alastair replied, leaning forward and gently pressing their faces together. He took a deep breath, and said, “I’m in love with you, you stupid fucking idiot, and I was tired of not being able to admitting it.”

“So, kissing me in the middle of an argument seemed good enough?”

“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling against Jack. He hated how affectionate he got with people he loved. “I’m guessing since you kissed me back, you feel the same?”

“Of course I do, you idiot. I’ve had a crush on you since we met.”

“You did? And you didn’t say anything?”

“You were smitten with James. I wasn’t going to even attempt it. Besides, you two were perfect for each other . . .” he said softly. His hand traveled down to the middle of Alastair’s back. “I’m not retiring.”

“I figured. I hope you think about it. I don’t want to get another call because you’ve had half your fucking head blown off ever again,” he said, causing Jack to chuckle. “I’m being serious.”

“I know you are.”

They both went quiet. Alastair sat down on the hospital bed, and Jack softly kissed him once more.

Thinking of something, Al pulled away, “Will you at least think about it?”

“Yes,” Jack said with a sigh, “I will. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right.”

Alastair smirked. “You bet your ass I am.”

A soft chuckle escaped Jack’s lips. He carded his fingers through Alastair’s hand. “Are you going to take me out on a date once we get out of here?”

“Hell no. I’m not into that stupid shit.”

“Oh. Well . . . sorry, then I’ve got to reject your offering. Not interested.”

Alastair rolled his eyes, and said, “I know you are, whether or not you deny it.” He laid down next to Jack, who promptly curled into his side. He relented a bit, “. . . I’ll take you to one dinner. How does that sound?”

“That sounds amazing,” Jack said, closing his eyes. “I only have one real condition for us, though.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“I get to keep all of my dogs.”

“Oh, _fuck_ no! You have a zoo, we are _not_ keeping all of them!”

“Come on!”

“ _No_! You have to give some away to the other agents. We are not keeping them all.”

Jack pouted a bit, and scowled. “We’re talking about this later, when I’m not drugged up, and can knock some sense into you.”

Alastair laughed. “I look forward to it,” he said with a small smile.

He really did.


End file.
